Day the music died: Islamist extremists steal the voice of Mali musicians

Sudarsan Raghavan

KHAIRA Arby, one of Africa's most celebrated musicians, has performed all over the world, but there is one place she cannot visit: her native city of Timbuktu, a place steeped in history and culture but now ruled by religious extremists.

One day, they broke into Arby's house and destroyed her instruments. Her voice was a threat to Islam, they said, even though one of her most popular songs praised Allah.

Musicians who fled northern Mali gather in a cramped apartment in the southern city of Bamako. Photo: The Washington Post

''They told my neighbours that if they ever caught me, they would cut my tongue out,'' said Arby, sadness etched on her broad face.

Northern Mali, one of the richest reservoirs of music on the continent, is now an artistic wasteland. Hundreds of musicians have fled south to Bamako, the capital, and to other towns and neighbouring countries, driven out by hardliners who have decreed any form of music - save for the tunes set to Koranic verses - as being against their religion.

"Music is like oxygen" ... Baba Salah has helped many of his colleagues who have fled. Photo: The Washington Post

The exiles describe a shattering of their culture, in which playing music brings lashes with whips, even prison time, and MP3 and cassette players are seized and destroyed.

''We can no longer live like we used to live,'' lamented Aminata Wassidie Traore, 36, a singer who fled her village of Dire, near Timbuktu. ''The Islamists do not want anyone to sing any more.''

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In Malian society, music anchors every ceremony, from births and circumcisions to weddings and prayers for rain. Village bards known as griots sang traditional songs and poems of the desert, passing down centuries-old tales of empires, heroes and battles, as well as their community's history. In this manner, memories were preserved from generation to generation, along with ancient traditions and ways of life.

In current times, lyrics serve as a source of inspiration and learning, a way to pass down morals and values to youths. They have also been used to expose corruption and human rights abuses, and have helped eradicate stigmas and given a voice to the poor.

''In northern Mali, music is like oxygen,'' said Baba Salah, one of northern Mali's most-respected musicians. ''Now, we cannot breathe.''

In March, amid a military coup that left the government in disarray, Tuareg rebels who once fought for Libyan autocrat Muammar Gaddafi joined forces with secessionists and Islamists linked to al-Qaeda. They swept through northern Mali, seizing major towns within weeks and effectively splitting the impoverished nation into two. Soon afterwards, the Islamists and al-Qaeda militants took control.

They have installed an ultra-conservative brand of Islamic law in this moderate Muslim country, reminiscent of Afghanistan's Taliban and Somalia's al-Shabab movements. Now women must wear head-to-toe garments. Smoking, alcohol, videos and any suggestions of Western culture are banned. The new decrees are enforced by public amputations, whippings and executions, prompting more than 400,000 people to flee. The extremists also destroyed tombs and other cultural treasures, saying they were against Islamic principles.

The death of music was inevitable. It is, perhaps, Mali's strongest link to the West. Musicians such as the late guitarist Ali Farka Toure, the Tuareg-Berber band Tinariwen and singers such as Salif Keita exported their music to the United States and Europe. They often collaborated with Western musicians.

Today, in the city of Gao, 39-year-old singer Bintu Aljuma Yatare no longer listens to music on her phone. The Islamists will confiscate it, she said. She cannot leave because she has to take care of her ageing parents.

''Sometimes I lie in my bed and hum my songs softly,'' she said. ''The only way for me to survive this nightmare is through music.''

In a cramped apartment in Bamako, about a dozen young artists were recording a song, a fusion of rap and traditional melodies. In one corner was a microphone and a computer to mix the tracks. Next to that was a synthesiser.

All the artists were from northern Mali, and none were playing with their own instruments because they had either been burned or shattered by the Islamists.

It has been difficult for the musicians to earn money in the capital. They sing in the languages of the north, but most people in Bamako speak only the southern Bambara language.

But even in exile, they have found a way to take a stand against the Islamists. ''We feel like soldiers,'' said Kiss Diouara, a 24-year-old rapper. ''This is our way to fight our war.''

A few minutes later, he played his group's most recent creation. The video included a collage of news clips and photos of Islamists destroying ancient mosques and asserting their power. In the video, Diouara raps:

Free the north,

We want peace in our land,

We want to go back to our homes.

Arby understands. For the past eight months she has lived out of a suitcase. ''When I think of Timbuktu, I am lost,'' she said, wiping a sudden tear that trickled down her cheek. ''When I dream of Timbuktu, I wake up. When I think of Timbuktu when I am speaking, I stop speaking. My heart is broken. Timbuktu is everything to me.''